Pleasant Dreams, Pleasant Nightmares
by TheTheatreChick
Summary: Ichabod's childhood, as portrayed in the dream sequences of the movie.
1. Mother Dearest

_Ichabod…_

He heard the soft, sweet voice of his mother calling for him. He watched her running about in a circle, a blindfold wrapped around her head. She felt around blindly, searching for him in their little game. _Ichabod, _she called again, feeling around the forest for her son. Her fingertips brushed up against the thick tree's bark. "Now, that is not my little Ichabod," she joked innocently.

Ichabod, a small boy of seven, hid behind a little green bush, giggling. He saw her feel around a plant, sniffing it, her lovely voice calling his name again. _Ichabod, _oh how he loved to hear her say his name, over and over again. "Mama!" he cried, running up to her. The woman smiled and flung her arms out, around the little boy. The two embraced in gleeful bliss. The woman pulled off her blindfold, revealing the most beautiful eyes, to match the most beautiful soul inside.

"I've found you, silly boy," she grinned, hugging him tightly again. Ichabod's face glowed with happiness, the warm, loving feeling of his mother's arms around him.

"Shall we play another game?" she asked.

Ichabod nodded his head quickly, a growing smile forming on his little face.

Lady Crane smiled. "Very well, why don't we dance, then?"

Ichabod's eyes lit up. "Yes, yes! Dancing, dancing, dancing!" he hopped up and down in a fit of excitement.

His mother hoisted him up in the air, the two of them spinning together. "Alright then, let's dance!" she shouted. Ichabod's giggled uncontrollably, soaring through the air in his mother's safe grasp. Everything seemed so wonderful when he was around his mother. The soft whisper of the wind in her hair, the subtle, yet bright smile she always had for him. She games they could play together. She was much more fun than father.

Yes, father. It didn't seem like he liked to play with Ichabod that much.

But Ichabod didn't let that get in his way. He chuckled more and more as he flew through the sky, falling back down on the soft, meadowy grass with his mother.

"I love you, Ichabod. Don't let anyone ever tell you differently," his mother said, her eyes gazing up at the clouds. She sighed contently, pointing up to a big, fluffy one. "Now tell me, Ichabod, what does that cloud up there look like?"

Ichabod thought hard, tapping his finger to his chin. He stopped to giggle. "I know! I know! A dog, right? And that one over there is a kitty, and that one over there is a pony! Right, I'm right, right?" his imagination running wild.

Lady Crane merely smiled and said softly. "They can be whatever you want them to be."

…

Later on that night, Ichabod shivered, huddling underneath his warm blankets in his little bed; the shadows of the night looming across his windows. He heard the thunder strike outside with a loud BOOM. He jumped, shivering even more, but his mother was right there beside him. She pulled out a little picture, cut out in a circle. One side a bird, the other side a cage. Ichabod was puzzled, staring at the thing. His mother twisted the little string edges of the picture, it swirling before his very eyes. Suddenly the bird was in the cage! It was magic, wonderful magic! Ichabod smiled, forgetting the troublesome storm outside.

"Don't be afraid Ichabod, don't let anything ever make you afraid," his mother said.

It was a wonderful moment between Ichabod and his mother, possibly the happiest Ichabod had ever felt, feeling so safe and secure, if not for the silhouette of a man outside. The dark, blank, cruel, silhouette of a man: looking all too clearly like his father.


	2. Father's Words

It was late in the evening, that cold, rainy night. He was told to go to sleep, but young Ichabod Crane crept out of his room and down the hall, to watch his mother. He always liked to watch his mother draw pictures in the sand, they were always pretty pictures. Tonight would make no difference, and so down the tall, bleak hall little Ichabod went, his tiny legs stumbling as he tripped over the sleek black rug. The harsh pitter-pattering of the noisy raindrops outside, along with the loud, booming thunder striking down from the clouds scared him. He watched through the window, the bright lighting bursting in the fields. He shivered a little; clinging to his blanket as it trailed behind him. The rug was felt soft under his small, bare feet. 

Finally, he reached the big red door, as he called it, leading into the room with the fireplace. That's where his mother was. He could hear her humming a song through the thick door, pressing his ear up against it. He could hear the faint sound of her stick shifting the sand around, scratching up against the stone floor underneath. Carefully, he pushed open the door a crack, and looked in to see his mother, smiling as she concentrated on her picture. Ichabod squinted, he couldn't quite make out what she was drawing. Perhaps if he got a little closer he'd be able to see better…

Suddenly, he heard a stomping noise, heavy boots thumping, no walking towards his mother. _Thump, thump, thump _they echoed in the great hall. He saw his mother look up in fear at the figure that approached her, his father. Lady Crane gulped, looking away.

"Good evening, darling. You're up late, what might be that you are doing?" he smiled his sickening smile, bearing his crooked teeth. Ichabod was afraid of him. His father had done many bad things in his lifetime, very bad things to people.

Lady Crane tried to brush away at the pictures, drawing her husband's attention. He grabbed her wrist in the middle of her erasing. "What's this?" he said, his voice unsure, examining the pictures in the sand.

She tried to push him away "No, don't go near them!" her hoarse voice cried.

He threw her roughly across the floor. "What's the matter with you, woman? Don't you dare to touch me in that way!" his eyes hot, like fire. Like a hawk, he darted his attention again to the pictures. His eyes growing wider and wider as the moments went by. "Just as I suspected," he murmured under his breath. "_Witchcraft."_

Lady Crane dragged herself up again, from off the floor. "You know nothing of that, you're merely overreacting. Go back to bed." she whispered loudly.

Lord Crane scowled, his boots thumping again towards his wife. He pulled her up by her hair. She let out a shriek as he threw her to the floor again. Ichabod watched horrified, his father dragging her back to the fireplace, he threw her in front of her little drawings. "What do you expect for me to do with you, if you insist on committing such unholy acts in my own house!" his black gloves pointed to the pictures of the strange, swirling shapes. "Answer me, damn you!" he forced her on her knees. He tossed a bible in her face. "Have you read this? Do you know what it means?" he said spitefully.

Lady Crane winced, looking away from the book. "I know nothing of that, leave me alone."

Her husband's eyes burned with untamable rage. "I shall tell you now, none of these cursed pictures you draw are in _this book_. Nothing about dancing in the woods with your bodice almost completely open throwing flowers in the air like some common whore is not in _this book_. No magical moving pictures with birds in cages to entertain little girls and boys are in _this book!_" he shoved it in her face. "_This_ is the most holy book ever written. It is the book of _God, _A book that has words which might save one's soul if followed directly, like yourself."

She spat at him. "I've no use for you or your book of God."

"But you _do_ have use for the books of Satan?"

She shook her head fiercely. "I've read no books about him, either."

"But you have made a pact with him?"

She was quiet for a minute, her eyes filling with bitter tears. She bit her lip, wrapping her arms around herself. "Do you think I teach Ichabod about the devil, for I do not!"

Her husband's expression did not change. "My wife, I know not what goes on between you and my son, but I can only pray that you have not tainted his mind with your own sinfulness."

She broke down into a hysterical fit of weeping, burying her face in her hands. "I have not sinned, merely played games with the child!" she cried out, but her words were muffled under her hands. She raised her head, wet with her own sadness. Messy stray ends of her hair sticking out "I would never dream of hurting Ichabod. I love him, more than you could ever imagine, more than you could ever dream, and more you could ever do," her blank eyes searching deep into the hypocrisy she saw in her husband.

Ichabod sniffled, _Mother, what's wrong? _He thought in his mind, not understanding his father and mother's conversation. He wiped his eyes, sniffling again. _Stop yelling, father. _

Lord Crane sighed "I was afraid I would have to do this, but it is for your own good. I must safe you from this wicked sorcery, it will do you no good but damn you into the blackest pits of hell, where frankly, witches like you belong!" with that said he grabbed his wife by her arms, pulling her up from the ground. He carried her away, the woman screaming, fighting him, almost knowing what he was about to do next. She tried to wriggle away from his grasp. His father's face was frighteningly calm. He opened a large door, leading into a strange hallway of bright white. Down the hallway he carried the reluctant, weeping woman, down through the hallway, and into a little room that Ichabod had never seen before.


	3. The White Hall

It all happened so fast, Ichabod barely had time to gather his thoughts. The door banged shut behind his father. He could still hear his mother's disturbed screams clawing through the doors, bouncing off the walls, ringing in his ears like the sharp hissing of a midnight cat. Ichabod shuffled his feet slowly to the large door, pulling it open with his tiny little hands. He grunted, struggling. _Oh, why is this so heavy?_ Suddenly, he heard a positive "click," and the door was opened. His eyes burned, meeting with the bright white light of the hall, empty. He continued to stumble down the hallway, concerned because he couldn't hear his mother's voice anymore. _Mother! Mother! _He was tempted to call out her name, but a low rumbling noise from behind the door at the end of the hall startled him. He heard that dreaded noise again, _thump, thump, thump_ the thumping of his father's boots. Ichabod's eyes lit up, knowing he had to find someplace to hide. He looked behind him, the hallway looking long, too far away to walk all the way back and still get away. Uneasily, he ran to one of the pews on the side of the big room, hiding underneath, his head just fitting in the space. _He'll never find me mean old father, _Ichabod thought, thinking himself clever. 

But before the little boy knew it, the doors to the little room opened, revealing his stern father with a somewhat satisfied gleam in his eye, his mother nowhere in sight. Ignoring his idiot son on the ground, Lord Crane merely walked right passed him, down the eerie white hall and back out through the door, slamming it closed behind him.

After making sure his father had left, Ichabod stood up again, walking curiously towards the door to the little room. _Perhaps mother is in here, _he innocently thought. Ichabod stopped abruptly, he thought he heard another sound, quiet and sweet; a haunting sound. _Ichabod…_

Was Ichabod imagining things? It sounded like his mother. The voice called him again. _Ichabod… _

Ichabod heightened his pace. "I'm coming mama!" he shouted happily as he ran down the hall. It was his mother calling for him! She was alright! His pink little face was over-joyed. He couldn't wait anymore, his anticipation eating away at him. He ran faster, his barefeet patting against the carpet. "Mother! Mother!" he called out as he pushed open the door…only to stop dead in his tracks.


	4. Pleasant Dreams, Ichabod

Ichabod stepped forward, as if he was stepping into a land of evil, a land of hell. Around where he stood, there were devices Ichabod didn't even know what they did. Wires, metal, screws, nails, knives, axes, mechanisms of all sorts. Ichabod's stomach turned queasy; after staring at the instruments for so long he began to feel sickened. He walked across the room, his naïve little eyes wandering about, fascinated with everything they laid on. _Could these all be father's? Why have I not seen these before? _Were many the questions that raced through his mind. But abruptly, his head turned to a large, steel coffin that stood at the end of the room up against the wall. At first, he could not quite make out what it was exactly. He hobbled along the cold, hard floor, dropping his little blanket behind him. He looked up, pulling his head back to gaze at the coffin. There, at the top, there seemed to be a little window. From inside the window, out looked a pair of eyes; a pair of broken, dead eyes with a hopeless glance, looking out at nothing. The eyes looked all too familiar to Ichabod. His heart sinking so fast he felt it might sink into his shoes, he approached the large coffin slower, and slower, fearing to take another step, knowing what it would lead to. The careless foot of death crushed his hopes, smashing them into a thousand pieces. He felt a gust of cool wind blow through his thin pajamas, he felt vulnerable to the cold. The voice was tinkling in his ears again, the honeyed, soothing voice of his mother speaking _Ichabod. _

He was now only inches away from the coffin. He took in a breath, and asked the coffin "Mother?" No sooner did the words pass his lips he heard the sound of the rickety hinges on the doors to the box creak open, rumbling and shaking up the room. Along with it came down his mother, but was it his mother? A cascading waterfall of thick, red, fresh blood poured down onto the little boy, his face more horrified than a man forced to chew off his own leg, the bone crackling in his teeth. He backed up, only to fall back clumsily, pressing his hand up against a chair covered with more sadistic needles and nails, making several deep marks in the palm of his hand, squirting out blood onto his face, until he only wore a mask of crimson red. He looked back up at his mother.

Inside the coffin were little nails, dripping silently with the cold blood of his mother, her face covered with holes, diving onto Ichabod. He saw into her lifeless eyes, the mangled, twisted, disgusting body of his mother dangling down before him. He wanted to cry. He couldn't understand why he could still hear the grim sound of his mother calling him, her voice still crisp in his memory.

_Ichabod, Ichabod, _his dead, broken mother drooped before him, yet he could still hear her calling him. _Ichabod…_

….

Constable Crane awoke with a jolt in his bed. He was sweating all over, his sheets damp, his forehead thick with sweat. He looked out his window from his bed, looking out at the velvet night sky twinkling with little stars. A swarm of relief flooded him, knowing it was all just a dream.

He lit a match, lighting up a small candle in the corner of his room. He sat up in his bed, thinking. "Just a dream, of old memories that were best forgotten," he reassured himself. Katrina would be in soon to check on him, she always did that, checking up on him in the middle of the night just to make sure he was ok.

He sighed, crossing his arms, listening to the whispering wind hollow in the night. Suddenly, his breathing stopped, and he listened very closely, ignoring the common silence of the evening. He heard a faint voice say quietly "Pleasant dreams, Ichabod."

He smiled to himself, and replied into the lonely night "You mean pleasant nightmares. That's all you'll get here, in Sleepy Hollow…"


End file.
